prêt-à-porter
by waltz2
Summary: The smile on his face is sharp enough to tear Sanji's heart to ribbons. modern!au, sanjilucci, shameless smut.


prêt-à-porter

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pairing: Sanji/Lucci

summary: The smile on his face is sharp enough to tear Sanji's heart to ribbons. modern!au, sanjilucci, shameless smut.

Oda said Sanji would be a stylist, and Lucci's certainly that much of a heartthrob to be a supermodel. So, uhm, rare-pair, anyone?

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This has been a long time coming. Ever since they exchanged words backstage at the Donquixote's ready-to-wear fashion show, seizing each other up in the dressing room mirror's reflection.

Sanji swallows down a lump in his throat, fidgeting with his tie as he watches with heavy-lidded eyes how Lucci invitingly settles down on the bed. Lucci puffs out his chest, holds his chin up high, and slightly spreads his legs so Sanji could dip his knee between them, if he wanted to.

The smile on his face is sharp enough to tear Sanji's heart to ribbons.

When he finally manages to undo his tie, he takes a step closer to the bed, barefoot and with his heart hammering away between his own two ears. What he's feeling right now is eerily similar to what he was feeling the time they faced off in a fighting ring. They did so on Lucci's invitation, since Sanji didn't take him seriously when he said that he was interested in martial arts. Supermodels weren't supposed to be, especially not the everything-goes ones like Krav Maga or Muay Thai.

He had made a point of telling him so. They went out for drinks afterwards, to some trendy cocktail bar uptown. People were ogling them the moment they entered. Probably because Sanji had two band-aids slapped over his swollen, bloody nose and a black eye.

Nobody could see that Lucci had a bruise the size of Sanji's foot on his chest, after all.

Lucci reaches out for him, brings his hands to his waist and hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of Sanji's pants. Pulls him closer. The gleam in his eyes is accentuated by the dimmed bedroom lights; shadows splay over one side of his face. Whoever invented the turn of phrase devastatingly handsome must've had Rob Lucci in mind.

His mouth's drier than the desert, parched for another kiss, another taste, and Sanji reflexively rakes his teeth over his lower lip.

Lucci tips his head back, exposing the column of his throat and a hint of collarbone. Sanji settles his knee between Lucci's legs, flush against his crotch, and puts a steadying hand on his shoulder, before leaning in and touching their mouths together, eyes screwed shut. When Lucci tugs the button-up free from his pants and slides his hands over his bare flanks, Sanji can't suppress a curt, guttural groan.

His hands start to shake a bit and, fuck, he's frighteningly nervous about this.

Fingertips press into his skin and when he opens his mouth in response, Lucci slips his tongue inside, never one to let an opportunity go to waste. They break the kiss and Sanji watches how Lucci slowly skims the tip of his tongue over his upper lip and smirks afterwards, satisfied, with just a hint of teeth, like how a cat would clean its maw after a meal.

"Pants off," Lucci demands then. Authority colors his tone of voice and Sanji understands why so many stylists are anxious – afraid, even – to work with him.

His hands come down to rest on Sanji's hips and he positively leers, when he suggests, "Unless you want me to pull them off for you?"

Sucking in breath between clenched teeth, Sanji straightens and unbuckles his belt. Meanwhile Lucci leans back and tilts his head to watch him undress. Sanji lets out a shuddery exhale when those warm hands leave his body. Lucci watches attentively how he opens the brass button of his dress pants and unzips, standing there with his belt and pants open, the blue fabric of his boxer-shorts in full sight. He slowly shimmies out of his pants, feeling clumsy and graceless one step at a time.

Lucci smiles that wickedly-sharp smile of his and before Sanji can react, he's up on him again, nosing along the outline of Sanji's cock. "I'm going to suck you off," Lucci promises, looking up at him, cheek against his thigh, breath hot against Sanji's crotch.

"Fuck," Sanji answers back unintelligibly, hauling a hand through his long, blond fringe. "Fuck… Shit, you can't just say things like that…" His sentence comes to a stammering halt when Lucci kisses his dick open-mouthed, tongue insistent and warm and wet through the thin fabric of his underwear.

Fingers tug at the elastic waistband of his boxer-shorts, and every inch of bare skin that appears along the nook of his thigh gets licked and nipped at. His cock bobs free from his underwear and sags slanted across his pubic bone, half-hard already. Sanji brings a hand to his mouth when Lucci tongues along the length of his shaft; the soft, well-groomed hairs of his goatee brushing against hypersensitive skin.

"Holy shit," he whispers hotly against the palm of his hand, bucking up against Lucci's face despite himself.

Sanji's looking down on Rob Lucci giving him head, but he can scarcely believe any of this is happening. Has been happening. They've skirted around each other after the fashion show, and after the sparring session, they started dating. Lucci is the Italian supermodel Sanji's looked up to during his late teens, whose photoshoots and interviews he regularly cut out of whatever magazine they were featured in and plastered against his bedroom wall.

When they happened to meet on the job, Sanji was so worked up from doing Donquixote Doflamingo's makeup, he took jabs at Lucci the moment he sat down in that dressing room chair. Fast forward and now Sanji can call him his boyfriend.

Lucci opens his mouth and slides it down over Sanji's cock, savoring him slowly. Inch by inch. Until his nose is buried in Sanji's pubes. He puts one hand on Sanji's right hip, thumbing over the bone there, far more tender than when he gave him those glaring red-purple hickeys on his neck earlier this night, or when he grinded against him hard in the kitchen. His soft, black hair tickles against Sanji's thigh.

For a moment Sanji thinks he forgot how to breathe and feels his face heat up. His gaze flits from Lucci to anywhere else in the bedroom; from the very modern, black wardrobe to the small chest of drawers that's serving as a nightstand, to the large rectangular window that almost takes up an entire wall, looking over the city's skyline.

Inevitably, his eyes fall back on Lucci.

In the dead quiet of the room, the soft sounds of his boyfriend sucking him off reverberate obscenely loud between his own two ears.

"Lucci," Sanji hisses hotly against the palm of his hand when he hollows his cheeks and sucks him deep; his cockhead nudging against the back of Lucci's throat. "Fuck, please, fuck, fuck, fuck—" and his litany of fucks is broken off abruptly when Lucci lets up and wraps a loose fist around Sanji's cock.

With half-hooded eyes, he looks up at Sanji while deftly unbuckling his own belt with one hand. The buckle clanks dully against his thigh.

He nudges Sanji's glistening cockhead with his lips and slips his hand down his own designer boxer-briefs. His mouth gleams wetly in the dimmed bedroom lights. Sanji groans at the sight, screws his eyes shut for a moment and bucks falteringly into Lucci's hand, against Lucci's mouth. His body's tense, his cock hard and leaking precum, and the muscles in his legs drawn taut as he rocks weakly on the balls of his feet.

Pinned down by his gaze, Sanji watches flustered how Lucci takes the head of his cock back into his mouth. Breath rushes out of his nostrils, caught between the palm of his hand and his face.

He feels like they're shooting a porno. The thought that Lucci's jacking himself off with Sanji's cock in his mouth is almost enough to get him tumbling over the edge. But just when his balls clench and his thighs start to tremble, Lucci promptly stops and rises to stand, slowly dragging Sanji's button-up over his abdomen, his stomach and ribs, and nipping at the newly-exposed skin.

His cock bobs haplessly against his lower belly.

Sanji makes a low, keening sound at the loss of Lucci's hot mouth. "I almost…" He says as he puts both hands on Lucci's shoulders, not knowing whether he should shove him back down to finish the job or grab him tight and draw him into a searing kiss.

"Shit, I'm so close, so close you… you bastard," he patters breathlessly.

Lucci stands straight now, just that bit taller than him, and smirks. "I know," he responds in a throaty, smoked-through voice. Presses their bodies flush together and kisses him demandingly, with that air of confidence Sanji so desperately wanted to have ever since he was a kid. Sanji feels the jerking movements of Lucci's hand through the fabric of his underwear against his own aching cock.

Every nerve-ending in his body is on fire. He tastes the salty tang of his own precum when Lucci licks into his mouth.

After the kiss, Lucci hauls his hand out of his underwear, and together with his pants, pushes them down to his ankles in one-go and steps out of them. Even the dimmed bedroom lights can't conceal the dusting of dark, downy hair on his legs, standing out against his sun-kissed skin. Sanji's eyes are drawn to Lucci's cock almost immediately; long, and thin with an upwards curve, already drooling precum at the tip.

He swallows haplessly, a curt dry click that echoes around his skull. His fingers clench into Lucci's dress shirt.

"Shirt off," he orders, bringing a hand to the hinge of Sanji's jaw, looking him straight in the eye. His pupils are dilated, gobbling up the bright color of his irises, indistinguishable. "Then get on the bed. I'm not done with you yet," Lucci punctuates the last part of his sentence by stroking Sanji's cock once, twice, grinding the heel of his palm over the swollen head.

Watching Lucci unbutton his own shirt with deft fingers, makes Sanji somewhat self-conscious about his own fumbling. He shrugs off his button-up and clambers onto the bed.

Every movement makes him uncomfortably aware of how his hard-on bobs against his abdomen.

Lucci slowly tugs the sleeve off his right shoulder and discards his dress shirt onto the floor with a nonchalant gesture, looking every inch the supermodel. "Against the headboard. Spread your legs." And when Sanji doesn't comply fast enough, he adds with a switchblade smile, "Spread them wider, honey."

He dips his left knee into the mattress, cock jutted out, and gets on all fours. The bedroom lights add a warm, golden glow to his black hair and the outline of his strong shoulders There's something effortlessly graceful about the way Lucci moves. He crawls over with the ease of a big, lazy cat and kneels between Sanji's legs.

They make eye-contact again and Sanji knows there's a deep red blush high on his cheeks. The palm of Lucci's hand feels impossibly warm on his kneecap, even warmer sliding down the expanse of his leg to the crook of his thigh. His stomach clenches in anticipation of the orgasm he's on the cusp of having, if only Lucci would fucking touch him again.

His cock aches when Lucci finally nudges it with blunt fingertips. "Yes, fuck yes, yes," Sanji patters incoherently, the 'yes' more a hiss than a word, the sibilant dragged out between grit teeth. He jerks back violently and hits his head against the wall hard when Lucci slides two fingers down his shaft, down to his balls.

Lucky for him, Lucci leaves him no time to get embarrassed about it.

Steadying him by the back of his neck with one hand, he brings his fingertips to Sanji's lips and whispers hotly, "Suck."

Is he going to spread me without any lube? The question bounces around the back of his mind. Aside from that one colleague he's had a short-lived relationship with at the beginning of his career, Sanji doesn't have, well, a lot of experience with guys. He's not the type for one-nightstands either. Not at all, really. But, he's pretty-fucking-sure he doesn't want to get rawed like that during their first time.

Hesitantly, Sanji opens his mouth, closes it again, turns his face to the side and then hisses heatedly under his breath, "We're not fucking doing this without the proper prep, okay?" He tries to duck his head entirely, so Lucci can't see how badly he's blushing, and tacks on, "So get the lube already, you asshat."

Lucci scoffs in return, a sound that doesn't betray whether he's amused or annoyed, and shifts his weight around on the bed, leaning in closer. His voice has this deep, throaty quality to it when he speaks. "I wasn't planning on fucking you without it," here he takes a deliberate pause to grab Sanji by the chin, as if to emphasize his point. "I just wanted to blow you good tonight. Understood?"

"But if you're so eager to get fucked…" He trails off, not even bothering to feign innocence as he places his hand on Sanji's hip and then goes back down on him. His other hand comes to rest on Sanji's chest, a comfortable, warm weight.

When Lucci takes Sanji's hypersensitive cock in his mouth again and sucks him off mercilessly, he manages to wrench loose a long-winded whine, punctuated by Sanji writhing helplessly against the headboard, eyes screwed shut. His thighs start to spasm, like little needle-pricks under his skin. Subconsciously, Sanji spreads his legs as wide as he can, toes curling and hands clutching onto the sheets. Lucci doesn't even let up for a second.

The telltale red-white-heat of his orgasm blindsides him for a moment and his mind scrambles to keep up, short-circuited. Lost in the high that he's coming hard down Lucci's throat without warning. His breathing's haggard, and he feels like his lungs should be burning up, like he just ran a marathon.

Sanji watches dazedly how Lucci settles upright again and wipes the cum at the corner of his mouth away with the back of his hand, smirking in satisfaction. Fuck, that's insanely hot—it's the closest thing to coherent thought his brain manages to get. He feels boneless, warm and sticky at all once, and he can't bring himself to move as much as an inch when Lucci looms over him, holding his cock in one hand and Sanji's right thigh in the other.

"Hold still," he says, his tone of voice's thick, all hot and bothered, and close, so close.

Lucci moves his hand away from Sanji's thigh so he can steady himself, giving his cock a couple of quick jerks. The tendons in his throat stand out sharply as he tilts his head back, sweat glimmering in the dip between his well-defined collarbones. He groans as he spends himself all over Sanji's abdomen. Some strands of hair sticking to his jawline and cheeks, his chest's heaving violently, and it's the first time Sanji's seen him looking so disheveled, so done away with his customary composure and that air of confidence he always dons.

He could get used to this side of him.

The sight of Lucci's cum glistening in between his wiry pubes feels strangely erotic, territorial even, as if Lucci marked him. Sanji isn't as turned off by the thought as he imagined himself to be. He stretches languidly and rolls over onto one side, pressing his legs tightly together and propping an arm under the pillow.

"Do you want to take a shower?" Lucci asks then, snapping Sanji from his daze. He hauls a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. His silhouette's cut out by the cityscape in the window behind him; the column of his throat gleams with sweat and the color of his tattoos looks a richer purple in the scarce lighting.

Sanji scrunches his brows together in response and mutters snappishly, tiredly, "What? Are you afraid I'm going to get cum on your sheets?"

"Why do you think I came all over you?" He rebukes promptly, the hint of a smile playing along the corners of his mouth.

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They're in the bathroom and Sanji's counting the bitemarks on his neck in the mirror. The bright glare of the thin fluorescent tube overhead accentuates the bruises on his throat. Lucci's toweling his hair dry and Sanji can clearly see the pale outline of his scar, spanning shoulder to shoulder, and the muscle definition in his back. The bathroom door's ajar, leaving the white lighting to stream inside the bedroom in one thin line.

He turns his gaze back to his own reflection and thumbs the hickey in the juncture of his shoulder. There are two toothbrushes in a glass on the sink, next to a half-empty bottle of Dolce and Gabbana's the One and a set of tweezers.

"Is there something the matter?" Lucci asks, looking at him from over his shoulder. His hair sticks to his skin, gleaming like wet silk and done away with its natural waviness.

Sanji turns around and brings both his hands behind him, holding onto the sink. "Just admiring your handiwork."

He heaves a sigh and wonders aloud, "How the fuck am I supposed to go to work with all these fucking hickeys on my neck?" It's not like he really needs an answer, but he bets his paycheck that bastard's going to give him one anyway.

"Show them off," here Lucci smirks, drapes the towel around his shoulders and takes a step towards him. "Speaking of work, I have that shoot for Fendi tomorrow at seven…" He nears even closer, so akin to a predator it makes Sanji's skin itch. "You can stay around the apartment a bit longer if you like," he offers casually, hemming Sanji in against the sink. "I don't mind," these last words deceptively soft, a hush of breath against Sanji's cheek.

His eyebrows furrow together. "When and where do we meet up then? After work? Unless you want to come all the way over to the salon to pick up your key," Sanji says, trying to keep his gaze trained on Lucci's eyes. His mouth is way too tempting.

Besides, they both need to go the fuck to sleep already.

"I have a spare," Lucci responds, bringing their bodies flush together. He pulls the towel from his shoulders and flings it over the rack next to the sink. Wedges his leg between Sanji's to knock his knees apart. It's unfair how warm his bare skin is in comparison. "I'll leave it on the kitchen counter before I go," he says before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of Sanji's jaw.

Automatically Sanji leans into the touch and brushes the button of his nose against Lucci's temple in turn. He wraps his arms loosely around Lucci's lower back and mutters, "Thanks, I'll give it back next time we meet up."

It was the wrong thing to say apparently, since the look Lucci gives him speaks volumes. Sanji doesn't take too long to catch up however, and grinning ear to ear, he exclaims, "Oh." He feels a sudden giddiness washing over him at the prospect of owning a spare key to his boyfriend's apartment. It makes their relationship so much more official. Warmth spreads from his chest throughout his entire body, and if it isn't love, it's something dangerously close.

"Let's go back to bed," Lucci suggests then, pulling away from his embrace and walking over to the bedroom. He pushes the door wide open and his blurry shadow stretches unsteadily over the floorboards, before he steps further inside and flicks the lights on.

Sanji tries – and fails – to shake that stupid grin off his face, and trails behind him.

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End file.
